


5 Times Vic Wore Walt's Jacket

by professortennant



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 15:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16663609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: In front of her, Walt grinned at her from beneath the wide brim of his cowboy hat. She’d only been partnered up with the sheriff for about three months, but there was something about him that made her feel settled. Maybe it was the good-guy, ‘aw shucks’ cowboy vibe. Maybe it was the way he had remembered after their first meeting that she took her coffee black and saturated with sugar and had made every effort to bring her in a steaming hot cup of coffee just the way she liked it.Maybe it was because at the base of this mountain, with Vic shivering her tits off, Walt just dropped a hip, hooked his fingers into his belt loops, and teased her.“Don’t they have snow out in Philly, Vic? They didn’t teach you how to dress for the weather out east?”





	5 Times Vic Wore Walt's Jacket

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first (but not my last!) Longmire fic.

**I.**

 

The faux-leather jacket she’d been carrying around with her since her academy days had served her well during countless Philadelphia winters. Victoria Moretti was accustomed to bundling up for a snowy winter—jacket, gloves, and Philadelphia Flyers beanie and all. 

 

Salted roads, window scraping, wrapping the pipes and letting the water drip, stocking up on bread, milk, and non-perishables—these were the hallmarks of an East coast winter.

 

Wyoming winters were a completely different beast. There were no tall skyscrapers and closely-built buildings to block out whipping winds; not enough of a population to leech a little warmth from the street crowd bustling from place to place; and there definitely wasn’t a Starbucks or ship every other block you could duck into for a slight reprieve. 

 

So when she showed up at the base of a mountain—and yeah, that was new to her, too—to help Walt clear out some illegally parked RVs wrapped in her Flyers beanie and worn faux-leather jacket, icy snow clinging to her boots and blue jeans, she had more than a little to say about the state of things. 

 

“It’s fucking cold out here, Longmire. Can we _please_ h-hurry it up? Tell ‘em to pack up and m-move out and let’s get out of here.” 

 

And she managed to say it with only a slight chatter to her teeth, thank you very much. She stamped her feet in the hopes to get the blood moving in her legs and generate a little warmth. Fucking Wyoming with it’s wide open spaces and sub-zero temperatures. 

 

In front of her, Walt grinned at her from beneath the wide brim of his cowboy hat. She’d only been partnered up with the sheriff for about three months, but there was something about him that made her feel settled. Maybe it was the good-guy, ‘aw shucks’ cowboy vibe. Maybe it was the way he had remembered after their first meeting that she took her coffee black and saturated with sugar and had made every effort to bring her in a steaming hot cup of coffee just the way she liked it. 

 

Maybe it was because at the base of this mountain, with Vic shivering her tits off, Walt just dropped a hip, hooked his fingers into his belt loops, and _teased_ her. 

 

“Don’t they have snow out in Philly, Vic? They didn’t teach you how to dress for the weather out east?”

 

She glared at him and wrapped her arms around her middle. “It’s almost like you can’t see the leather jacket I’m wearing right now,” she griped. 

 

Walt tilted his head and made his way over to her, those blue eyes of his stopping with fond affection on the ‘P’ of her Flyers beanie, before inspecting her jacket. A callused fingertip reached out and snagged her arm from around her waist and extended it out into the cold air. 

 

“Walt, what the hell are you—“

 

His fingertip trailed to her wrist and slipped beneath the material of her jacket, rubbing her cuff between his fingers. For a second, Vic felt suffused with warmth as the back of Walt’s knuckles brushed along the cold skin of her wrist and she hoped he couldn’t feel the pulse in her wrist thumping wildly. 

 

Other than the mountains and sparse population and unbearable winters, getting a little weak in the knees over an older, grizzled cowboy was new, too. 

 

Walt hummed and hawed and nodded to himself before withdrawing his fingers from her jacket and burying his hands into his pockets, shaking his head at her. 

 

“Well, you know how you keep harping on about this leather jacket of yours? It’s not leather.”

 

She gaped at him. “Yeah, I know. It’s faux-leather. It does the same job.”

 

Walt shook his head. “Not out here, Vic. The wind will whip right through this and, not for nothing, but this jacket’s seen better days.”

 

“So, what, I need to go get me a cowboy hat and sheepskin jacket like yours?” 

 

He looked at her, the corners of his lips curling upwards in a begrudging smile. Her knees felt a little unstable at the sight and she mentally scolded herself and thought of the wedding ring sitting locked away in the top drawer of her desk back at the station. 

 

“Let’s leave the cowboy hat and sheepskin for now and start with a warmer jacket, period. Wait here.”

 

She watched as Walt cut a path through the bank of snow, retracing their footsteps back to the truck. He looked good against the Wyoming sky and snow, boots and hat and jacket completing the lone ranger look. Her knees wobbled unsteadily again and she stamped her feet again for good measure. 

 

A few minutes later, Walt returned and tossed a bundle of fabric at her which she caught with a grunt, the material surprisingly heavy. She untangled the knot of the jacket in her arms and ran her fingers over the stitched sheriff’s star. The jacket was clearly Walt’s, almost two or three sizes too big for her, but she slipped the oversized jacket on and immediately sighed in relief.

 

The jacket was lined with some sort of fur and was reinforced with a type of windbreaker material that helped shield her from the wind. She pulled the material up around her ears and unconsciously nuzzled and turned into the thick fur collar, inhaling the pine and coffee scent that reminded her of Walter Longmire. 

 

A snort made her eyes open in surprise, an embarrassed flush spreading across her cheeks at being caught burying her nose into his collar. She mumbled her thanks and coughed, zipping the material up tight around her. 

 

Walt grinned. “Warm enough now, deputy? You ready to get back to work?”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

His laughter followed her up the winding path up the mountain towards the illegal RV camp. 

 

“Laugh it up,” she grumbles under her breath before turning and calling over her shoulder. “I’m getting Ruby to order me one of these, just so you know. On the county’s dime!”

 

A few weeks later, her own deputy jacket arrives on her desk with a Post-it on top with Walt’s distinctive handwriting: _Now you’re Wyoming-certified._

 

Wyoming was starting to grow on her after all.

 

**II.**

 

Though he’d never tell her, stakeouts with Vic were one of his favorite parts of her being his deputy. In the quiet cab of his Bronco, the boundaries between them seem to fall away. She teases him about his taste in classic, old school country music which he still has tapes of in his truck. 

 

“ _Tapes,_ Walt? You know what year it is, right?”

 

Over poured cups of coffee from his thermos (he wordlessly hands her the packets of sugar he’d packed especially for her), they talk shop in hushed tones, exchanging theories and ideas about their latest case and they catch the other up on the day-to-day activities of being deputy and sheriff in Absaroka County. 

 

Alone, away from the prying eyes of the town’s citizens, he laughs a little more easily and the words come a little faster. Or maybe that’s just because he’s finding it easier and easier to simply _talk_ to her. 

 

Walt uses these moments to watch her in a way he is sometimes not afforded in the day. He takes in the sharp cut of her cheekbones, the way she taps an unheard rhythm against the denim of her thigh, and the way her hazel-gold eyes shine with emotion. Walt loves the way her emotions are written on her face, open for his perusal. Vic can never hide anything from him. 

 

He’s noticed the way she’s started looking at him, all lingering gazes on his face and the occasional dropped glance to his lips. Walt _likes_ the way she looks at him a little too much. 

 

For someone who is supposed to be _just_ his deputy, he spends a lot of time cataloguing her quirks and habits; itching to say or do the right thing to make her laugh and roll her eyes at him—anything to get a reaction.

 

But for tonight, they are sitting on the county’s borderline just off the highway with the car lights killed and waiting for a caravan of trucks to pass by them. After a few weeks of tracking down leads across Durant and the Reservation, they were reasonably sure the new players in town trekking heroin through his county were set to move tonight. 

 

Now, it was just a waiting game. 

 

A waiting game that was leaking into the wee hours of the morning and after six hours together in the cab and an empty thermos sitting on the floorboards of the Bronco, Walt could see Vic fighting the pull of sleep. 

 

She sighed and tucked herself against the window, balling up her jacket beneath her head as a makeshift pillow and huffing in annoyance when she couldn’t quite get comfortable, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the slight chill in the air. He watched her struggle to get comfortable enough to catch a half an hour, at least, of sleep. 

 

“We need to start storing pillows and blankets in here,” she grumbled. “God knows we’re in here often enough to use them.”

 

Walt’s traitorous mind thought about the _other_ uses those pillows and blankets could be used for: pillows and blankets spread out in the bed of the truck, Vic pressed beneath him among the fabric, his mouth working its way down the column of her neck and—

 

Clearing his throat and stopping that train of thought, Walt looked over at his restless deputy. “Here,” he said gruffly, tugging on her arm and pulling her closer and dropping his shoulder invitingly. She went easily with his movements and he caught sight of the way she focused on his hand wrapped around her arm, the way it completely engulfed her bicep. 

 

“I’m a little more comfortable than a window.”

 

She looked at him uncertainly, half-leaning towards him. “Walt…”

 

They’d been so careful to keep the touching between them to a minimum. Sean had long since gone and without the boundary of matrimony to keep them apart, it was only their own fears and insecurities between them. Touching—even something as innocent as her head on his shoulder—was inviting temptation. 

 

“It’s fine,” he said, cutting her off. He thanked the late hour and dark night that provided cover for the faint pink color that was no doubt on his cheeks. “You can use your jacket as a blanket and catch some sleep. I’ll wake you in thirty.”

 

Slowly, with her bottom lip between her teeth, Vic lowered her head to his shoulder, cheek pressed to the well-worn material of his sheriff’s uniform. The sound of her soft sigh and snuffle as she rested her weight comfortably against his body shot through him and he resisted the urge to lift his arm and wrap it around her shoulders to draw her closer. 

 

Vic spread her jacket over her body but it couldn’t quite cover her legs _and_ torso. For a few moments, he watched as Vic scrunched her knees up on the bench in an attempt to cover as much of herself as possible with her tiny jacket. Finally, he rolled his eyes and reached behind the passenger seat, jostling her slightly before coming up with his oversized deputy’s jacket. 

 

“Here,” he said and draped his jacket over her, effectively tucking her in. Vic stared up at him from her place on his shoulder, her eyes dark and searching. He swallowed hard against the realization that with a dip of his head and a tilt to the left he could easily brush his lips against hers. Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he shifted and relaxed in an attempt to make sure his shoulder was as comfortable as possible, and reminded himself of _boundaries_.

 

Even if he felt brave enough to cross the lines drawn between them, perhaps in the middle of a stakeout wasn’t the most appropriate place.

 

But the scent of her shampoo mingled with the lingering aroma of his aftershave still on his jacket and they smelled _good_ together and well, temptation was tempting. So he smiled softly down at her and brushed a strand of blonde hair from her forehead and allowed himself the thrill of touching her this way, fingertip tracing over her forehead and above her eyebrow, tucking the hair behind her delicate ear. 

 

“Get some sleep,” he rumbled quietly, eyes locked on hers. Her lips parted and she let out a shaky grin before adjusting his jacket over her body in a facsimile of an embrace and let her eyes drift close. 

 

“Wake me in thirty,” she reminded him, voice husky and low with sleep and perhaps a little desire. She nestled more firmly against his shoulder and exhaled softly. 

 

Walt tugged the jacket up over her shoulders and, once he was certain she was asleep—the rise and fall of her shoulders deep and steady—he pressed a clandestine kiss to the top of her head before resuming his watch. 

 

**III.**

 

She’d assured her mother when she’d moved out to Wyoming that it was a good thing. She was getting away from the hustle and bustle of the city and she’d be more likely to ticket a cow for trespassing than confront anything particularly dangerous. 

 

Her first few months had proven her right as she and Walt rode from call-to-call to sort out domestic disputes, drunk and disorderly calls, and picking up litter. To her amusement, Walt had a real thing about litter in his county. 

 

(She’d made him start carrying a bottle of hand sanitizer around. “You know, Walt, if you’re going to be picking up cigarette butts off the sidewalk, you may want to invest in some fucking Purell.”)

 

And then the ghosts of the past—his and hers—had come to town and it seemed like things got a little more dangerous. She drew her gun more readily and shots echoed through the air of Absaroka County during more than just the hunting season. 

 

Perhaps she should have expected the inevitable—you can only dodge bullets for so long.

 

The bullet tore through her side, taking with it muscle and sinew and bone. It dropped her hard and fast and she barely had time to cry out and feel pain before Walt was screaming for her, holstering his weapon and going to her. 

 

Ahead of them both, their perp—the man who fucking _shot_ her—disappeared behind the forest tree line with the smell of gunpowder behind him. Vic pressed a shaky hand to the wound at her side and grit her teeth against the pain and tacky, hot blood rushing between her fingers. 

 

Walt dropped to his knees beside her and checked her over, hands drifting over her body and face going pale at the sight of so much blood. She groaned and pushed feebly at his shoulders. 

 

“I can call my own damn bus, Walt. Go get the fucker who shot me.”

 

Ignoring her words and with only a cursory look up at the tracks their suspect had left behind, Walt cupped her face with the hand covered in her own blood, looked down at her, and grimaced. “ _We’ll_ get him after you get patched up at County. C’mon.”

 

It was a blur after that. Blood loss and shock were settling in as the bullet wound began taking its toll on her body, draining her of energy. Her fingertips felt numb and her heart was racing. And then she was airborne, wrapped up in Walt Longmire’s arms as he lifted her effortlessly and rushed back to the waiting Bronco. 

 

Her head lolled against his chest and she focused on the pounding of his heart, the heat of his body, the soft sheepskin jacket beneath her cheek. Vic raised her hand to his jacket and curled her fingers into the soft, worn fabric. 

 

She had always loved this jacket; loved the way he looked in it against the Wyoming horizon. 

 

And now her blood was seeping out into it; ruining it. Like she ruined everything. Vic the Terror.

 

“Walt,” she started, voice woozy and slurred. “I’m so sorry.”

 

“You don’t have a damn thing to be sorry for, Vic. Just hang on, okay? We’re gonna get you fixed up right as rain. You just stay with me. _Stay with me._ ”

 

She blacked out then, consciousness ebbing and flowing. Vic remembered the hurried, panicked quality to Walt’s voice—something she had never heard before. She remembered the way he laid her next to him in the truck, pulling her against his side and scrambling for something in the backseat. The spicy aroma of his aftershave filed her nostrils, jolted her into consciousness briefly, as he pressed his trusty sheriff’s jacket against her side as a makeshift bandage and gauze. 

 

“Hold this here, Vic. That’s it, darlin’. Don’t close your eyes! Talk to me, Vic. _Vic._ ”

 

He sounded urgent and she wanted to reach through the veil of pain and dizziness to calm him, to tell him it would all be okay. But her side and hip were in agony, burning with pain and rendering her incapable of forming words or thought. 

 

All she could concentrate on—later, all she would remember—is her hands curled around his, both pressing down on the sheriff’s jacket against her side, and desperately hoping this wouldn’t be the last time their hands linked together. 

 

**IV.**

 

He supposed, after everything she’d been through—divorce, torture, and a touch of heartache at the hands of his own stupid self—she was entitled to a night of drunken fun at the Red Pony. And, given the number of times Henry or Ruby had called her up in the middle of the night—frequently on her day off—to drag his drunk ass home, it was only fair that for once he get the call to come get _her._

 

Vic sat at the far end of the bar, smiling brightly at the cowboy leaning into her personal space and swirling a tumbler full of whiskey. The instantaneous, white-hot flash of jealousy that rushed through him as he took in the way she was dressed—a short, off-the-shoulder black dress embroidered with turquoise Native designs—and the way she placed a hand on the cowboy’s arm, hand tight on his bicep, surprised him. 

 

But he had lost the right to feel this way after that fateful day in the alley when she had mustered up the courage and bravery to confront him about the changing terrain of their relationship and he had shut her down with a few choice words before turning his back on her. 

 

The strain and distance between them had been growing ever since and he didn’t know how to fix it. Perhaps her request that Henry call _him_ tonight was a sign that she was searching for a Bandaid, too. 

 

He pulled at his gun and belt, hiking the material up around his hips more comfortably, before making his way over to her, the brim of his hat pulled down low. 

 

Vic saw him first and grinned at him, hand falling away from her cowboy suitor. Walt didn’t miss the way the man’s eyes trailed over her exposed shoulder and the tops of her breasts. He bit back a low growl in his throat before shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the next. 

 

Possessiveness, he reminded himself, was both an unattractive quality and certainly not a quality he prided himself on. 

 

But Vic looked pleased at his reaction, alcohol making her relaxed and the emotions play out on her face even more prominently than usual. He tipped his hat at the cowboy, wordlessly dismissing him, before turning his gaze to her. 

 

“Hey there, Vic. I heard you need a ride home.”

 

A lazy smile curled at the corners of her wide mouth as she lifted the remains of her whiskey to her lips and drained the glass. He tried not to notice the way her dress bunched at her thigh, exposing a line of lean, long muscle and leg. 

 

She hopped off the bar stool, wobbling a bit on her heeled boots. Without thought, he reached out to stabilize her, fingers curling around her elbow and tugging her closer. Vic stumbled and righted herself by pressing her palms to his chest.

 

“Hi,” she breathed out. He winced at the heavy odor of whiskey on her breath and surmised she had been here for quite some time. 

 

He sighed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “C’mon, Vic. Let’s get you home.”

 

Vic allowed him to guide her through the mass of people at the Red Pony and he was thankful she wasn’t giving him a hard time about leaving. She followed him dutifully, her gaze on the way his hand was wrapped around her wrist. The heat of her body burned through her dress and intohis palm that lay on the small of her back. 

 

In the cool night air, the flickering neon lights the only illumination, Vic shivered violently and he remembered how exposed she was. Her skin was pimpled with goosebumps all over her arms and shoulders and he immediately shrugged out of his brown sheepskin’s jacket and draped it over her shoulders with a gruff, “Here.”

 

She slipped into the oversized jacket with ease and he looked at her fondly, swaying slightly on her heeled boots and drowning in his jacket. Vic looked incredibly small and vulnerable then, the smile that had been on her face fading away. 

 

“C’mon, Vic. Truck’s this way.”

 

He tried to guide her to the vehicle but she dug her heels in and looked up at him, jaw tense and eyes watery. 

 

“Vic? What’s wrong?”

 

She played with the cuff of his jacket for a moment before looking up at him, eyes slightly unfocused. “I’m sorry,” she finally managed, voice husky with tears. 

 

He waved her off. “Nothin’ to be sorry for. How many times have you dragged my drunk ass hom—“

 

“No,” she interrupted. “Not for tonight. For—for everything. I—“

  
The way she started and stopped herself, the uncertainty and tears in her voice—it was all so unlike his deputy that for a moment, he barely recognized the woman standing before him. He inched closer, reaching for her and tried not to feel hurt when she flinched away, drawing her hand back and away from him. 

 

“I’m a good investigator, Walt,” she started. “And maybe I got cocky because I _thought_ I had all the evidence. I stored away every time you touched me or flirted with me. And I just leapt to the wrong conclusion. I-I tried to make the evidence fit what I wanted to see and I was wrong.”

 

She let out a hollow laugh and Walt tried to remember how to breathe. He felt cold seeping into his bones and his fingers went numb as the blood rushed to his head. The pain and doubt in her words were damn near suffocating. 

 

Vic bit her lip and sniffled, collecting her thoughts. Walt stayed silent, waiting. Raising her head, her eyes meeting his, he flinched at what he saw: walls, barriers, and a cold resolve. 

 

“So I’m sorry if I guessed wrong, if I misinterpreted things between us. I-I miss you, Walt. I don’t want it to be like this, awkward and weird, anymore. Okay? So just, I’m _sorry._ ”

 

His heart cracked beneath his ribs at the knowledge he had done this to her—made her doubt what was actually true. He reached for her again. “Vic, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. God, I—“

But she stopped him with an outstretched hand and a cardboard smile. She was doing a damn good impression of a soldier simply hocking up her pack and soldiering on. 

 

“Let’s just call a truce, okay? Friends.”

 

He looked at the hand stretched between their bodies and grimaced. After everything—every desperate hug and longing glance—this was what it came down to: a fucking handshake. 

 

It was the absolute last thing he wanted but it felt too momentous to address right now, not with a lawsuit and the Irish mob hanging over his head; not while she was drunk and swaying slightly in the light breeze. 

 

So he reached out and took her hand, warm fingers curling around her hand and brushing against the cuff of his own jacket, the same jacket that dwarfed her. 

 

“Friends,” he said, the word sticking like glass in his throat. 

 

She smiled at him and nodded once, looking rather proud of herself, before her face turned green and she grimaced. 

 

“Walt? Take me home before I puke on your expensive jacket.”

 

Despite the pain in his chest, he laughed and guided her—rolling stomach, expensive jacket, and all—into his truck. 

 

_Friends._

 

**V.**

 

Before Victoria Moretti stormed into his life with a foul mouth and an attitude that didn’t quit, Walt was a pretty straight-and-narrow kind of guy. He went to church every Sunday and waited for marriage before sex like a good Christian boy. And the sex he _did_ have was perfectly polite and passion-filled. He loved Martha and was glad they got to experience each other and sex for the first time together—careful and loving and sometimes a mass of tangled limbs and muffled giggles. 

 

It had been sweet and vanilla and he’d loved every minute of it and never thought to ask for anything different. 

 

So when he and Vic went camping on the backside of his property, their tent propped up beside the creek that ran through his land, and Vic stood between himself and the fire and began to slowly strip off her jacket and shirt with firelight and desire in her eyes, Walt knew he was in for something a little different. 

 

“Vic,” he croaked, his pants tightening uncomfortably as she pulled her thermal top from the waistband of her jeans and pulled it off, up and over her head, leaving her standing before him in cowboy books, jeans, and a black bra.

 

The firelight danced over her pale skin and created tantalizing shadows over her body—shadows his fingers and tongue itched to trace and chase. She grinned at him and trailed a hand over her breasts, trailing over the valley between them and down over her abdomen, playing with the button of her jeans teasingly. 

 

“C’mon, Walt,” she said through a saucy smile, plucking the Rainier from his hands and taking a long drag before dropping it to the side. “It’s just us out here.”

 

She nudged his knees apart and slipped between them easily, looking down at him in his camper chair. He nuzzled into the palm of her hand as she stroked over his hair and cheek, scratching lightly at his stubble. 

 

Licking his lips, he gripped her hips and pulled her closer, enjoying the sound of her shriek of laughter ringing out into the cool Wyoming air as she toppled on top of him. The combined weight was too much for the camper chair and they went tipping back into the soft grass, a tangled mass of arms and legs and giggles. 

 

Walt rolled Vic beneath him and looked down at her, half-naked among the thick grass, flames, and starlight. He trailed a fingertip over her jaw and smiled softly at her. 

 

“You’re beautiful.”

 

She blushed like she always did when he said such things and he dipped his head and kissed her softly, sucking her bottom lip between his own and tracing the inside of her mouth with the tip of his tongue. A soft moan erupted from the back of her throat as she clung to him, legs winding around his waist to bring him more fully against her, deepening the kiss and demanding more of him. 

 

He grinned against her mouth and palmed her breasts over the thin material of her bra, loving the way she arched into his touch unabashedly, breaking their kiss and panting hot and heavy in his ear.

 

“ _Please…”_

He kissed her again, sucking on her tongue, before breaking away and peppering kisses over her jaw and cheek and nose. “Tent?” he asked, rocking his hips against her, pressing his erection into her jean-covered center. Even through the denim, he could feel hot hot she was and the rush of desire left him dizzy. 

 

Vic pulled him back down to her mouth by tugging on the strands of his hair, fingers winding into the brown-and-grey strands. This was a favorite habit of Vic’s, he had learned to his great satisfaction. Her fingers would direct his mouth this way and that with her fingers in his hair like the reins on a horse. Even after sex, she would languidly stroke a hand through and over his hair. Or, when he was stretched out on the couch and she would pass him by on the way to the porch, she’d scratch her nails through his hair like he was an oversized house cat. 

 

Perhaps, with the way he purred and groaned at the feel, it wasn’t too far off.

 

Beneath him, Vic trailed a hand over the snaps of his shirt, pulling and tugging the material off and letting her fingers dance over his belt buckle enticingly. 

 

“It’s just us out here, Walt,” she reminded him breathlessly, straining to kiss under his jaw and over the pulse point of his neck. “Fuck the tent.”

 

He looked down at her and took in her flushed cheeks and chest, the spark in her eyes. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to make love to her beneath the stars of the land he loved so much. Gripping her hips, he rolled them so she straddled him and he looked up at her with the stars as her backdrop and the fire at her side. 

 

Palming her breast and tugging the material down, he thrust up against her center and grinned at her gasp of pleasure. She fell forward, bracing herself with a hand on his chest, and rocked against him. 

 

They tripped out of their jeans and boots, her bra falling a little too close to the fire for her comfort (“Walt! Do you _know_ how expensive those fucking things are?” “I’ll buy you another one,” had been his gruff reply). 

 

Afterwards, when their skin was slick with sweat and their fluids were mixed together and smeared on her thighs, fingertips tracing lazily over shoulders and forearms, Vic shivered and pressed closer to him seeking his warmth. 

 

“Fuck it’s cold out here.”

 

Walt smiled and pressed a kiss to her temple and held her closer with one arm while reaching blindly into the pile of clothes to his right where her underwear and his jeans and her top and his socks were jumbled together. Fingers enclosing on his prize, he pulled the thick, sheepskin jacket from the pile of clothing and draped it over them both, encasing them in warmth. 

 

She sighed happily and hooked an arm around his waist, dropping a kiss to his bare chest, mouth dangerously close to his nipple where she detoured briefly to nip at the sensitive skin there. In addition to sex in the great outdoors, the knowledge that his nipples were just as sensitive as hers was new to him, too. 

 

He liked that he and Vic got to share their own set of firsts, as well. 

 

“Walt?”

 

He looked down at her and found that she was looking up at him from her position on his chest. She was half-covered with his jacket and nothing else; to him, she had never looked more beautiful. Reaching for her hand, he tangled their fingers together, interweaving their fingers and pressing their palms together. 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“I love you.”

 

Despite being together for almost a year, the words still sent his heart racing as if it was the first time he’d ever heard the words. He tightened his grip on her hand and strained his neck to press a kiss to her forehead. 

 

After everything they had been through together, all the obstacles they had faced and overcame, it seemed a miracle that they would be here like this. Channeling every ounce of emotion he could muster, he dragged his jacket up over her shoulders to keep her warm and kissed her head again before murmuring softly against the crown of her head. 

 

“I love you, too.”


End file.
